


Wolves and Men

by aleberg9



Series: We Are All Wolves Here [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Lambert is Good at Feelings, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23423032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aleberg9/pseuds/aleberg9
Summary: Geralt comes home for winter and learns that Dogbert has continued to experiment with new mutagens. He reacts badly.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: We Are All Wolves Here [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684921
Comments: 12
Kudos: 100





	1. Geralt

Geralt watches the ancient stone fortress rise up in front of him as he rounds the last turn in the trail. The air is crisp and full of the promise of snow, but for now the sun is still fiercely fighting back the cold of winter.

The Path was long and rough this year, and the sight of the familiar gray walls is like a drink of cool water. Geralt is self aware enough to know that his feelings towards Kaer Morhen are too complex to be simply positive, but after a long three days climb through the Blue Mountains, he is glad to be home.

Roach shakes her head and picks up the pace, eager, it seems, to be rid of her rider and sheltered from the elements. This one is more picky than the last, but Geralt is fond of her all the same. 

As he rides into the courtyard a familiar figure runs down the steps to greet him, and before his brain has caught up with him, his body swings over Roach and runs to meet him. Eskel wraps his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and Geralt takes a deep breath of Eskel’s scent, pine sap and sage, and for one second lets himself fall into his brother.

They trade basic insults back and forth as Geralt stables Roach and heads inside, the same tired old stuff that they have shared since they were children. Inside, he passes many more familiar faces, and each greeting fills an aching hole that no one acknowledges but that never really goes away as long as a Witcher is on the Path. 

It seems that Geralt is one of the last to return, and most of the rooms have been taken, but he finds one that isn’t too drafty and sets about fitting himself into the rhythm of winter at Kaer Morhen. 

That night, the oldest boys in training gather around the highest tables and listen with rapt attention as the Witchers trade sordid tales of life on the Path. Despite his initial joy at coming home, Geralt feels a familiar weight lodge itself inside his throat and he finds that he cannot contribute to the story telling. So he sits back and lets the voices and not the words wash over him, and focuses on Eskel’s warm hand against his back.

Soon the boys leave, and then the trainers retire to their rooms and only the active Witches remain. They gather together around the large open hearth in the middle of the hall, and someone breaks out a bottle of vodka and someone else breaks out a bottle of white gull and the next thing Geralt knows everyone is laughing and falling against each other and slurring their words so badly it can hardly be called speech. The next day he will wake with a pounding headache and only a vague memory of the night before. But the warmth of familiar shoulders pressed against his and the weight of a comforting arm around him, surrounded by the rumbling voices of his brothers and the unmistakable warmth of home, will linger with him longer than the headache. 

Winters in Kaer Morhen pass in a strange dream time. Days are filled with countless tasks, mending armor and restocking rare potions and otherwise helping out around the keep. They pass endless hours practicing in the yard or in the indoor halls when the snow gets too deep. 

As always, groups of young boys flit in and around them but always stay just on the periphery. Carefully herded by trainers and their endless rounds of classes. Geralt does not let himself look too closely at their faces, and carefully tunes out their chatter. At night, he tells himself he is not a coward for looking the other way. 

But there are other things at Kaer Morhen that settle over him like a warm blanket on a cold night, or a calming salve over a burning wound. Eskel is there, with his familiar comfort and his keen insights. They spend several evenings holed up together, just the two of them wrapped like children in a shared blanket. They still seek out each others bodies at night and still find pleasure that way, but their relationship has never been romantic in that way, and sex for them is just another way to feel close. 

Gweld and Sergei are both friendly faces around the table and over a friendly game of gwent. They have both come a long way from the posturing boys that Geralt remembers. Jacek tells uproarious tales around the fire and gestures so wildly that he comes out of his seat at times to describe some monster hunt or another. Krzysztof is absent, but he sent a letter home with Andrei so Geralt doesn’t worry. Apparently he decided to stay in the south where the weather remains mild. 

And of course, Geralt spends time with Vesemir. 

The relationship between the younger Witchers and their former trainers is always complicated at best. Most of them keep a healthy distance for the first few years until they can settle into a new sort of relationship without the ghosts of small children standing between them. A few gravitate towards certain instructors that struck a cord with them when they were younger. Geralt doesn’t have any particularly strong emotions one way or another regarding most of the trainers. He knows what they did was hard, but if he lets himself doubt the necessity of it, he might loose a lot more then just a few cordial relationships with his old teachers. 

But Vesemir was always different. He is in all of Geralt’s oldest memories, and the only person who Geralt knows for sure ever held him as a child. So he figures that he has every right to seek out the old fencing instructor and share a few quiet drinks every now and again. 

One evening, he finds himself in a corner of the dinning hall, savoring mugs of cold beer with Vesemir, Eskel, and Lambert of all people. He doesn’t exactly recall how the sarcastic Witcher came to join them, only that he has been remarkably well behaved tonight and so hasn’t been too much of a nuisance. 

They’re talking low and quiet, nothing much to say but no reason to be silent either. The weather has been surprisingly calm the last few days, and life at Kaer Morhen as reached that particular stage where every winter, time seems to grind to a halt and leave everyone waiting aimlessly for it to start again. 

“You been expanding the goat herd this year, eh Master Vesemir? Seems like every time I go out there they’ve multiplied.” Eskel has a thing for goats, and spends way too much time fussing over them in Geralt’s mind. He supposes that there did seem to be more goats than usual when he came home this year, but trust Eskel to make an issue out of it. 

“Well, you know how it is, they breed worse than rabbits.” Vesemir takes a long pull from his beer, “And I guess there were less being eaten this summer as well, what with, well, you know.” He waved his hand as if that explained it all and took another pull of his beer.

Lambert leaned forward and fixed his caustic eyes on the old Witcher. He had a talent for gossip that would put old fishwives to shame. “What do you mean, what do we know?” He copied Vesemir’s hand wave but added a gesture to imply that he would like that information now, thank you very much.

Oddly enough, Vesemir looks guilty, as if he had said something he wasn’t supposed to. Geralt sat up from where he had been leaning back against the wall and Eskel tilted his head in interest.

“Well, its nothing really. Just fewer boys this year is all.” In all his years at Kaer Morhen, Geralt has never heard instructors discuss the death rate. It was simply a given fact of life in the keep and Witchers moved around it like an ugly but immovable obstacle, something undeniably there but too fixed to bother mentioning. All of a sudden, he was very interested in what Vesemir had to say.

Lambert was intrigued as well. “Come on, old man, we know you’re not telling us something. Give it up and tell us.” He made a gesture as if to poke Vesemir, and Geralt was of half a mind to join in. 

Vesemir sighed and for some reason looked at Geralt. Beside him, Eskel froze with his mug half way to his mouth. A stone sunk in Geralt’s stomach. Whatever it was that Vesemir was refusing to say, Eskel had guessed it and knew it was bad.

“Master? What is it?” Geralt kept his voice respectful, but he felt frustration curling hot under his tongue. 

“You have a right to know, I guess. Not like its a secret anyways.” Vesemir’s face went blank, like it always did with bad news, and his voice turned flat. “Dogbert… Well, he decided to keep trying his experiments. Some boys showed some promise this year, and he wanted to try it on more than one. Five boys were picked, but…”

“How many?” Geralt kept his voice as flat as Vesemir’s.

“Geralt, don’t…”

“No, Eskel, I want to know. How many?”

Vesemir didn’t look away. “None. None of the boys survived.” 

There is a beat of silence. Out of the corner of his eye Geralt sees Eskel reach for him and Lambert turn sympathetic eyes in his direction. He thinks he might throw his beer in their faces. He thinks he might flip the whole table. He doesn’t know what to think and so he does what he always does and leaves before he does something he will regret. 

There are only a few other Witchers scattered throughout the hall, and they are polite enough to look the other way and ignore his agitated scent. 

Out in the courtyard, the cold night air is a startling slap against his face, and he comes to a stop in one of the smaller side yards. His head is reeling and he doesn’t know what to think, much less what to feel.

He knows what goes on here. He knows how many boys die every year. And he doesn’t, he can’t, regret what he went through. But somehow the thought of other boys being subjected to the same experiments, and dying because of it, sits wrong and heavy in his gut.

He thinks this is what it’s like to feel helpless. He thinks this is what it’s like to feel invisible. 

He remembers walking through these stone halls and feeling every pair of cat slit eyes pass over him like he wasn’t even there. He remembers what it felt like when those eyes finally really noticed him and the pain that followed. The extra rounds of mutagens that made him special. That made him be useful.

Geralt feels a pressure build up in his chest, a prickling kind of rage, shapeless and uncontrollable. He thinks with this kind of rage he could tear down the walls of the keep. Like a child, he wants to howl and scream until everyone can hear him. Wants to shout, See me! Can’t you see me? 

But instead he takes a gulp of cold mountain air and forces his feelings under. Witchers don’t have emotions. He reminds himself. We don’t have to feel the pains of being human. 

Eventually he brings his mind under control and he stands silent and still under the moonlight. He can’t fathom going back inside yet but there is nowhere else he can think to go, so he stands frozen in the yard and pretends that he is made of stone.

After what feels like hours, footsteps sound deliberately loud behind him, and he is shocked to smell Lambert coming through the archway into the yard. Geralt turns to face him and waits for what he has to say.

“You know, I forgot how damn dramatic you can be. You sure you weren’t meant to be in the theater instead?”

“Fuck you, Lambert. I’m not in the mood for your bullshit.”

“Fine, fine. That was maybe a little unnecessary, but I felt like it needed to be said. Anywaaays…” Lamber held up his hands to stop Geralt from walking away, “For once I didn’t come out here to insult you. I came out here, well, I would say I came to check up on you but if I did I’m pretty sure you would bite off my head.”

“Hmmm.” 

“I know, I know. It breaks the sacred code of the Witchers, masters that we are at not talking about shit. But thats so much bullshit like everything else.” To make his point, Lambert spat at the icy ground at his feet. 

Geralt turned around and considered his words. He had never been particularly close to Lambert. The angry Witcher was hard to miss, but he had always had a particular sneer on his face for Geralt, so he had largely avoided him where he could. When he couldn’t, they had gotten into their fair share of fights. But after a frustrated night with Eskel, trying to put into words exactly how annoying that little piece of shit Lambert was, Geralt had had it slowly explained to him by an endlessly patient Eskel that not everything is as advertised on the label. Lambert wasn’t mad at him, he was just mad at the world. 

At first, Geralt had no fucking clue what Eskel was talking about, but it wouldn’t leave him alone. It took a lot of alcohol and a lot of swearing for him to admit, at least to himself, that he was jealous of Lambert. In a strange way that only made sense in the confines of his own mind. There was a part of him that wanted to be that angry. That wanted to be able to rage at what the world had done to him, but there was an even larger part that as petrified of what would happen if he ever let himself go like that. 

So he took some time and turned Lambert’s words over in his head. Trying them out like he might a new pair of swords. 

Finally, he replied. “I know it’s stupid, but I had thought those experiments were over. I was so fucking naive!” 

“Sure. And water is wet. But that doesn’t mean that you can’t be angry. Those fuckers like to play with lives like they don’t matter accept as statistics in some fucking test. And some how we’ll all just meant to carry on as if nothing is wrong. It makes me want to puke.”

“So why don’t you?”

“Hmmm?”

“What stops you from puking out your guts every time you think about what happens here.”

“Well, for starters, a shit ton of booze. And a good lay now and again doesn’t hurt either. But mostly it’s just good old denial and repression. The oldest tools in the trade. That, and I get to beat the shit out of monsters on a regular basis. So that helps too.” Lambert finished and turned to kick a small stone across the yard into snowbank against the far wall. 

“That doesn’t sound particularly healthy.” Geralt said.

“Hah! No. It doesn’t does it? Good thing they stuffed us full of those healing mutagens, or otherwise we’d all be dead of gut rot by the age of twenty. What a joke.” 

It was strange, Geralt thought, that Lambert of all people should be the one here now, and not Eskel. But it was strangely good, to have someone like Lambert here who wouldn’t judge and could take any venom spit at him and give it back tenfold. Geralt was less concerned about his rage, knowing that his company could take it. 

“Thanks.”

“Huh?”

“Thank you. I think it helped.”

“Oh, uhh, well. Don’t mention it. No need to get all weepy. I only came out to talk, not cry together like a bunch of school girls. Oh, and, if your done being all brooding out here in the moonlight, Eskel just chewed Vesemir out a good one and has been going all worried mother hen wondering what you’re up to. So you know, come in and settle him down before his hair goes gray with worry.” Lambert turned on his heel and headed for the doors. 

Geralt huffed a breath and followed, “Of course. I’m coming.”


	2. Eskel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eskel returns home for the winter and Lambert starts a fight

Eskel prided himself on being a responsible and reasonable Witcher. He stuck to simple contracts that promised success and payment when done. He may not ever enjoy the somewhat larger sums that his brothers could earn on some of their flashier contracts, but in exchange he also didn’t end up with quiet as many life threatening injuries. As a general rule, he made a point to avoid any form of heroics. Unlike some Witchers who would remain nameless but had white hair and a grumpy disposition, he was not interested in fame or the complicated politics which came with it. 

And most importantly, he was reliable. He was always there when his brothers needed him and he always returned home on time, well before the snows began to fill the pass. 

So that winter when he was held up with injuries in some backwater town in western Redania until late October marked one of the very first times that he didn’t show up on on the usual date. 

He had taken a contract on a wyvern, thinking he would collect one last prize before returning home, only to find that it was in fact a basilisk instead. Not only that, but it turned out to be two basilisks. The fight was long and hard and Eskel barely managed to drag himself back to the village to collect his coin. He was lucky that the inn was willing to give him a room and seemed able to leave him in peace for a few days to heal. Even so, as soon as he could stand, Eskel dragged himself into the saddle and rode away. 

But his wounds were still painful, and the trip to Kaer Morhen took several days longer than it usually did. 

By the time the looming keep came into view, he was feeling marginally better, but the early snowfall was making him long for a warm fire and a soft bed. 

He should have known that things wouldn’t be so simple. 

Of course, his brothers were somewhat worried when they arrived to find that the usually punctual scarred Witcher was not there. So when Eskel rode into the courtyard, quite a few Witchers came tumbling out of the keep to greet him. 

Among them was Geralt, whom Eskel was always happy to see, except for the shit eating grin on his face which told him that he might have to endure the Wolf’s particular brand of teasing before he got any other kind of attention from his brother. 

Jacek is the first to greet him, and as Eskel climbs laboriously out of the saddle, he staggers under the weight of Jacek’s not so gentle fist bump. “Well, well, well. Look who finally staggered in. You look like five miles of bad road, brother.”

“Like you’ve been chewed up and spit back out. What the hell took you so long? Got tired of being Mr. Always-on-time? Or did you get lost on the way up the mountain?” Lambert chimed in in his usually caustic tone. 

“Oh, lay off. It’s not like any of you have ever staggered in at the last minute. I seem to remember not too long ago when you yourself came in with half your guts hanging out in the saddle. You barely made it through the gate that time, Lambert.” Eskel fired back, but the retort was half hearted. And he made no move to shake off the various hands and shoulders that moved to brush against him, even when he staggered under the weight of exhaustion and injury. Under all the ribbing, he could hear the worry that his brothers were trying so hard to hide. 

Finally Geralt stepped forward and pushed some of the others out of the way. He poked Eskel in the chest, but he also reached out to take Scorpion’s reins from him, so Eskel let it go. “You. Are. Late.” Each word was punctuated with a poke. “You’re damn lucky you showed up, been thinking about grabbing that Zerrakanian dagger you got for myself.” Geralt’s lips turned up in his signature half grin, lips pressed together even at home to hide his sharper teeth.

Eskel sighed and shook his head. “Really? I’m surprised that you didn’t snatch it up the second you got home and found I wasn’t here. Glad to know you have at least a little faith in me.”

“Hmm. Go inside. Eat. I’ll take care of your fancy horse for you.” 

Eskel did not have a fancy horse, thank you very much. He just had higher standards than the ill tempered mares that Geralt always managed to scrounge up. 

“Hey, how come you don’t offer to take care of my horse? I got a fancy horse too, you know. What does a Witcher gotta do to get some service around here?” Lambert yelled at Geralt’s retreating form.

“Try asking nicely the next time you show up half conscious and we’ll see what you get.” Geralt replied over his shoulder. 

“Yeah right! Everyone knows Eskel’s your favorite, you lovesick fucker.”

Eskel headed inside before Lambert could start throwing similar jabs at him.

Dinner that night saw several more jokes thrown Eskel’s way, teasing him for his haggard appearance and late arrival. But he was given a seat close to the fire without having to ask and no one gave him trouble when he turned in to bed early. 

Sometime later, Geralt crept quietly into his room. 

“Shh, go back to sleep. Just checking your wounds.”

Eskel blinked blearily at him and rolled sleepily onto his back, “Mmm, ok. Mama hen.” 

Despite the hands gently checking him over, Eskel didn’t stay awake for long. The journey home had been long and cold, and Geralt’s touch was achingly familiar. 

The last thing he felt before he slipped back under was a light kiss on his forehead. 

The next several days it snowed heavily, and Eskel reckoned he was lucky to arrive when he did, or he would have gotten trapped somewhere in the pass. As it was, he spent several enjoyable days recovering by the fire, and by the time the bad weather cleared up, he felt good as new.

The first day with clear weather saw the Witchers piling out of the keep to begin shoveling snow from the courtyards and assessing the roof for any damage. Kaer Morhen was old, and there was always something which needed to be repaired. 

The sun was shining a cheerful yellow in the sky, and cast blinding waves of light off of the pristine snow that had piled up after days of blizzards. Despite the chill still in the air, the Witchers came out with their shirt sleeves rolled up and no jackets. They would warm up soon enough.

Eskel, Geralt and Lambert and a few others were working on clearing one of the side courtyards used for training. After several days cooped up inside, they were all twitchy with pent up energy, and they were looking forward to getting a little bit of training in before dark. 

This particular space was used mostly for agility training, and one half of the courtyard was taken up with a massive climbing structure built out of wood and metal. It was constantly being added onto and altered over time, so it was a mad, twisted sort of structure made out of protruding angles and precociously balanced platforms. The idea was to not only practice balance and agility, but to simulate fighting on unsteady and fragile surfaces. There were several sections of the structure designed to move or even crumble should someone step on them wrong. 

As it happened, Eskel and Geralt were concentrating on moving the snow that had piled up at the base of the structure when Lambert, who was already halfway up and balancing on a high beam, tipped one of the many swinging platforms and unceremoniously dumped a ton of snow straight onto Geralt’s head.

“Oh, I’m sorry, brother. It’s just I didn’t see you down there, what with how your hair blends in with the snow so well.” Lambert sneered.

Jacek, perched a little below Lambert, sniggered. “It’s a good thing you made it home in time this year. If we had to go dig you out of the snow, we might never have found you.”

Eskel put down his shovel and rolled his shoulders. There was only one way this was going to end.

The snow was heavy, and clung to Geralt in a white coat. When he tilted his head up to look at Lambert, his golden eyes were the only spot of color on him. “Hmm, must be tough for you. Having such poor eyesight. You sure you shouldn’t retire from the Path early? I’m sure they could find something useful for you to do around here. Make a good practice dummy if you ask me.” 

“Oh, is this your famous sense of humor, Wolf? If you want, I’m sure I could find a court or two willing to hire you as a jester, you-“

Lambert’s mouth was wide open for what would no doubt have been a stunning insult when Geralt hurled a tightly packed snowball to smack point blank into Lambert’s teeth. The fight was on.

Suddenly, everyone dropped their shovels and went scrambling to collect ammunition. There were no attempts to form teams or to pick sides. Eskel took ruthless advantage of Geralt’s focus on Lambert to shove a handful of snow directly down his already soaked shirt. Jacek used his arm to sweep off the snow from a beam in a wide arc that rained down on everyone directly below. Geralt, spluttering and with snow in his eyes, wheeled around and blindly threw a handful of snow at Eskel, who ducked out of the way. All around them the courtyard was full of flying snow. 

Eskel had been planning on tackling Geralt to the ground, but then another brother threw a snowball straight into the back of his head. He spun around to retaliate, but Krzysztof was already running after Sergei, who was cackling like mad and throwing snowballs at random. 

Geralt had decided that he more important prey than Eskel and was keeping Lambert firmly pinned on top of the structure with snowball after snowball, all of them thrown with lightning fast speed. Lambert howled half formed insults at him, but the white haired Witcher refused to show mercy.

Eskel felt a warm bubble of laughter forming in his chest. The next thing he knew, he was crouched behind one of the support beams of the structure, lunging around to throw carefully aimed snowballs at Gweld and Jacek, who were similarly situated as him, only to dodge back behind his shelter before they could retaliate. 

The fight continued in a similar manner for several minutes more, until the little progress they had made earlier with the shovels was completely erased and the whole courtyard looked like it was containing a miniature blizzard. 

Eventually, a loud voice cracked across the square, and the riotous activity came to a sudden stop. 

Vesemir stood at the entrance with his arms crossed over his chest, a stern frown on his lined face. 

Seven Witchers, soaked to the bone and dripping snow, stood facing him with sheepish smiles.

“I was under the impression that you were out here to clear the courtyard, not make it worse. I expect this space to be completely swept before any of you come in to eat. Understood?” Vesemir’s voice was grim, but his left eye kept twitching, and not a single whiff of anger or frustration wafted over in the clear winter air. 

“Understood, Master.”

“Lambert started it.”

Eskel and Geralt replied at the same time.

“Hey! You fucking tattle teller! I’ll…”

“Enough!” Vesemir shouted over Lambert’s rebuke. “You will finish cleaning this courtyard without any more snowballs and you will return to the hall when you are done. There’s work to be done over the Eastern dormitories. If you have energy for petty scrabbles you have energy to fix the roof.” 

With that, Vesemir turned on the spot and left, but not before Eskel could see his shoulders shaking with mirth. 

He turned to Geralt who was standing with a fierce frown on his face, though it was somewhat off put by the large clump of snow currently clinging to his chest where someone had managed to get in a good shot. “Come on, Wolf. Your face is gonna get stuck like that if you don’t lighten up.” Eskel said and reached down to dig his shovel out of the snow.

“Hmm.” Geralt turned and jabbed a finger in Lambert’s direction.“Lambert! This isn’t over.” Geralt promised with a growl, but he dutifully began hunting for his shovel. 

“Haha, you wish! But Papa Vesemir put his foot down so what are you gonna do now?” The smirking Witcher was completely unrepentant, but wisely he had yet to come down from the structure.

Geralt growled even louder but Eskel slapped him lightly on the chest and he got back to work. 

The rest of the morning past with a minimal amount of snowballs being thrown, and they all managed to stumble into the great hall before lunch was completely over. 

The snow had been quite wet, and Eskel had begun to shiver despite his Witcher metabolism, and wolfed down his helping of stew before rushing upstairs to change into dry clothes. 

True to Vesemir’s word, there was a patch of roof over the east dormitory that was beginning to sag under the weight of too much snow, so Eskel spent the rest of the afternoon and the next several days fixing that. 

Then another storm front moved in and everyone hunkered down inside again. 

More likely than not, they would be back to shoveling snow and fixing the same patch of roof in a few days, but it wasn’t so bad, all things considered. The busy work kept them all from going crazy with boredom. After the initial joy of being home and in a warm bed with no threat of racist villagers or hungry monsters wore off, there were only so many endless rounds of training that Witchers could endure before they began to go stir crazy. 

Eskel had long ago lost track of the number of fights he had had to break up over the years, as some of his more hot headed brothers began to chafe at being locked in a keep for months. For all that the Path was hard and thankless, when you spent most of your life wondering from town to town between bursts of high octane fights, it was hard to settle down for any period of time. 

Sometimes, Eskel entertained pointless thoughts of what it would be like to have a less itinerant lifestyle. He wondered if he would enjoy having a home to return to on a daily basis, rather than only once a year. Or if he, like his brothers, would grow too restless and learn to hate the familiar walls. 

He had been six when he came to Kaer Morhen, picked up by a passing Witcher after his whole family died of plague. But he had vague memories of his life before. Memories of long days spent roaming with a pack of other children, only to return home each evening to a warm house and smiling faces. He knew objectively that he had come from a poor family and that they would have lived a hard life with little to show for it, but in his memories he saw only his life from the perspective of a child. He saw a table full of food and gentle arms reaching down to scoop him up, and a voice singing some half formed song at night. 

The one time he had tried to share his thoughts with Geralt, he had been met with confusion. Geralt only had memories of Kaer Morhen, and had never bothered much to picture a life outside of being a Witcher. He supposed some of the other boys must of memories of their life before becoming a Witcher, but it never felt proper to bring up such thoughts with them. 

At the end of the day, Eskel mused, there really wasn’t much point in dreaming of a different life. He was what he was, and he had never been the type to fester in regret or could-have-beens. The Witcher’s lot in life was a hard one to be sure, but there were times it wasn’t all bad. When he had a warm fire behind him and a belly full of good food, and long nights spent in the company of brothers. He would take the moments he had, and cherish them during the times when the world seemed turned against him. But Eskel figured it didn’t hurt either, if every once in a while he dreamed of something more.


End file.
